


o jazz, honey jazz

by owl



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Dogs, Fanart, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, bubble tea, minghao is a Fool, or more accurately, this fic has nothing to do with jazz and everything to do with mingyu just being chaotic as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owl/pseuds/owl
Summary: Minghao finds his will to live tucked into a travel cup sleeve, mixed somewhere between tapioca pearls and hot milk tea.(He finds other things on his quest for said bubble tea — among them, a cute dog and its equally cute owner.)





	o jazz, honey jazz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleladysugar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleladysugar/gifts).



> for laina!!!<3333
> 
> merry christmas to you!!! i hope you enjoy reading this as much i enjoyed writing this _super_ self-indulgent little piece based off of some adventures i've had with some Really Amazing and Cool people by my side. wink wink. this fic exchange was super fun and such a challenge and i just... i love rhhb.... man....
> 
> title is from two drinks from [here](http://teadoboston.wixsite.com/teado/menu-1), the boston tea-do menu. s/o to karen, danie, boppo, and amber for just being the best, as always!!!!

Finals week sucks _ass_.

 

That's the motto that's been echoing in Minghao's mind ad nauseum, a nice, calming OST to cushion all the calculus he's been shoving in his brain for the six hours he's spent hunched over a textbook. Except it's not nice, nor calming — it's not even original, seeing as it was the last thing his roommate Junhui shouted at him before he left for his boyfriend's apartment, likely to do something a lot less figurative about "sucking ass".

 

("Jihoon likes to call it 'de-stressing'", Junhui tries to justify it. Minghao feels death.)

 

After solving a particularly grueling integral, Minghao puts down his pencil and stretches skyward — his bones make this awful cracking sound, almost like a complaint. Solidarity, Minghao notes. Finals week is causing him to deteriorate both mentally _and_ physically, which really doesn't forebode well for Minghao if he wants to pass his exam. He sighs.

 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. To counteract the panging overstimulation of his brain, Minghao, filled with a longing for a sweet treat and to just stop _thinking_ for a while, decides to crack open his secret weapon: a boba run.

 

It’s not so much of a secret as much as it is a large, dedicated facet of Minghao’s life. He finds his will to live tucked into a travel cup sleeve, mixed somewhere between tapioca pearls and hot milk tea. There are seldom moments where you will find him without boba within the confines of his ridiculously large hands, and this moment, regrettably, happens to be one of them; Minghao thus dons a parka and sets out to resolve this issue.

 

Minghao rubs his hands together on the elevator down, in preparation for both the awaiting cold and in excitement for his bubble tea. He’s spent — with his calculations and a quick look at the leather watch hugging his wrist — _way_ too long just sitting down and cramming, and his leg muscles are killing him for it. The elevator dings, signaling that he’s reached his building’s lobby, and he stumbles over the platform and trips, inexplicably. Which is a lie, of course, because there is an explanation, and it’s that finals week _sucks_ _ass_.

 

Minghao sighs, deeper this time. He’ll get extra pudding in his tea today to make himself feel better.

 

“What are you up to?” asks his building’s lobby attendant, gazing up at Minghao with doe eyes over his art history textbook. Joshua’s curiosity is innocent — friendly, really, but all the calculus jammed into Minghao’s brain seems to have pushed out the “How to Be A Nice and Respectable Human Being” file.

 

“Boba,” Minghao deadpans in response. His hand comes up to mime holding a boba cup to emphasize the fact subconsciously, and he wiggles his fingers sadly in the still-empty space. Soon, he resigns, _soon_ he’ll have his precious bubble tea.

 

“Ah,” Joshua replies, blinking slowly back up at Minghao. Finals week really gets to them all. “Bundle up tight, Hao, it’s freezing out there.” He drags his eyes across Minghao’s still-wiggling hands and registers — Minghao forgot gloves. That probably won't end well, not in Boston's winter chill. Josh opens a drawer, takes out his own pair of mittens, and tosses them to Minghao. "Take these, so you don't lose your fingers while you're out."

 

Minghao catches the mittens: they're soft and fuzzy, an almost pink shade of beige, but the kindness of Joshua's gesture warms him up better than any winter outerwear could. "Thanks, Josh," Minghao smiles at him. Ah, _there_ it is — Minghao's sense of humanity. In lieu of a Christmas miracle, there will always be a Finals Week Miracle, which also undoubtedly means Minghao wasted his miracle and chance at an A in calculus on... mittens? Joshua's pretty smile? Worth it.

 

He slips on the mittens, and with a final wave goodbye to Josh and a push of his building's exit door, he's off to acquire his boba — fuck, if the cold doesn't kill him first. Minghao's spent two seconds outside and he's already shivering, the tip of his nose already painted a light, blushy pink. He tucks himself tighter into his parka in response. Josh was right: it's fucking _freezing_ out here.

 

Cons of going to college in Boston: Minghao reiterates, it's _fucking freezing_. Boston weather starts being difficult to bear early in November, and in the midst of December Minghao bets that the tears he feels prickling at the corners of his eyes from the cold could freeze into ice right on his face. Minghao sighs again, this time in an attempt to warm himself up, and his breath condenses into tiny clouds. At least the winter time allows him to turn into a dragon, which sort of makes up for the fact that it _also_ allows him to turn into a human-ice-cube. His hands, however, remain warm, clad in soft, fuzzy goodness.

 

But winter in Boston isn't _so_ bad — not when everything is lit up with lights, storefronts adorned with Christmas trees and wreaths, the air heavy with carolers and the giggles of passersby. Minghao wishes he could share in the Christmas cheer, but the weight of _fucking_ finals week remains on his mind. _Fuck_ finals week. Where's his boba?

 

Pros of going to college in Boston: there are lots, really, but the most important one is _obviously_ the seven million different places to get boba in Boston. That's an exaggeration, actually, but there really are a shitton. The B in Boston, Minghao hypothesizes, could stand for boba, and that's honestly the most attractive thing that any city could possess.

 

In his freshman year he went on a tour with Junhui around the city, and they ranked all the local boba places. The boba shop that reigns supreme in Minghao's heart is definitely Tea-Do, a hole-in-the-wall joint that sweetens their milk tea perfectly and manages to not fuck up their tapioca six out of the seven days in a week (which is fine, considering that Minghao uses Fridays, the one-out-of-seven, to hibernate. Friday is when his favorite boba guy is off work.)

 

Tea-Do is also relatively close by to his apartment building, which means Minghao doesn't have to brave the cold for much longer. He speeds-walks, his fingers tingling in boba-anticipation, and passes a packed Kung Fu Tea while rounding a corner — like he said, there are a _shitton_ of boba places in Boston.

 

And, oh god, there it is.

 

There it _is_ , the beauty, the wonder, an oasis shining in Minghao's finals-darkened world: Tea-Do's red and white neon signage, signaling that Minghao has arrived at sweet, boba-filled salvation. He might cry.

 

He _is_ crying, but that's likely just because of the cold. Minghao dabs away his tears, and he walks up the steps to the boba shop, grips the door's handle, and opens.

 

Peace, warmth, relief, the light and fragrant odor of the perfect union between tapioca and milk tea — they all wash over Minghao in waves of happiness as he steps into the shop. Minghao practically lives at Tea-Do for a reason: with its dark mahogany countertops, red-painted walls, and the small leafy plants and board games housed on its shelves, Tea-Do feels like home.

 

Minghao exhales, and his stress leaves along with it. Just _being_ here makes him feel better. He doesn't even raise a single complaint at the prospect of waiting in the growing line of people in the shop, snaking up to order from — oh, it's Hansol. Hao's aforementioned 'favorite boba guy' and self-proclaimed tapioca wizard, he takes every order with a wide, heart-shaped grin. Minghao catches his eye when he slides into the queue, and Hansol's heart-shaped grin somehow manages to get wider.

 

"Hao, eeeey!" Hansol exclaims a long, drawn-out greeting, and the round-cheeked boy that's currently ordering jumps at the sound, turning to look at Minghao with wide eyes. The boy has a hand placed over his heart, too, like the shock of loud, friendly greetings had spooked him to the core. It's _cute,_ in a delicate sort of way.

 

"Hansol, eeeeeyyy!" Minghao replies, and Hansol smiles satisfactorily in response. Hansol turns back to the customer, who — is he _blushing_ at Hansol? Minghao chuckles. God, that's adorable. And from the extra sparkle in Hansol's grin and the glances he keeps sneaking back at the customer, the feeling isn't quite unrequited either. The power of boba and heart-shaped grins, Minghao supposes, and there is an added warmth inside of him on top of the heat of the boba shop and his Josh-lended mittens.

 

And, suddenly, there is a shift in the force. A rift in the system. Minghao's Spidey-senses tingle. He sees —

 

Oh my _god,_ it's the cutest, fluffiest dog Minghao's ever seen. Minghao's brain can't even begin to comprehend it: the dog is cute and fluffy and small and the warmest shade of chocolatey-brown and _fluffy_ and _cute,_ and the dog is — suddenly out of Minghao's sight? Fuck. Minghao didn't even register that the dog was being carried in someone's arms from one corner of Tea-Do's expanse to another, but the dog _must_ have been, because no canine can resist the temptation of being pet by Minghao Xu, right? It's the only explanation for the dog's quick getaway.

 

God. Minghao's brain feels like it's buzzing, swimming, _drowning_ in thoughts of that cute fucking dog. His hands are itching to pet a fluffy animal — _the_ fluffy animal in question, actually, and it's leaving a hole in his heart that Minghao's not sure even boba can fill. Which is concerning. Who just gets a fluffy dog, brings them to a public place, and _doesn't_ stop to let strangers pet their fluffy dog? It's practically criminal. Minghao advances in the boba line, pouting. Maybe he needs extra _extra_ pudding in his bubble tea.

 

Minghao decides to bury his fluff-related worries in that line of query: his boba order of the day. He usually settles on a classic black milk tea with boba, but — ugh. He needs a bit stronger of a pick-me-up to get through not _only_ his impending calculus final, but an impending calculus final with Fluffy Dog Thoughts on his mind. Maybe he'll try almond milk tea. Or jasmine milk tea? Or — Minghao's eyes land on a gem nestled in the midst of Tea-Do's Specialties menu: Almond Jasmine Milk Tea with Boba.

 

Fuck, she's perfect. Perhaps there _is_ a brightness, in the midst of Minghao's fluffy-dog-less, calculus-final-filled days.

 

But, no, seriously — what kind of _asshole_ decides to just swing their beautiful, perfect, cutest ever dog by Minghao's favorite boba shop without letting him pet said dog? There really has to be a law against it, somewhere. At the very least, it's against Minghao's personally-penned social etiquette which states: " _You must let me pet your dogs. It's the motherfuckin' law_."

 

Wait, shit, the asshole is back. And by the asshole, Minghao means, infinitely more importantly, the asshole's _adorable, fluffy dog_ is back, which thus causes bells and angels' choirs and orchestral arrangements of sappy anime OSTs to start banging their way through Minghao's brain in happiness. Oh god, Minghao could cry. The dog is infinitely cuter than his brain had captured in its brief three-second memory of the dog, and the dog was currently heading closer, _closer_ , almost within Minghao's arms' petting range. The fluffy dog is near. It's Minghao's _time_.

 

"Oh, aren't you just _adorable_ ," Minghao coos at the dog, and the dog — that is, the asshole _carrying_ the dog — stops in front of him. Minghao blesses the heavens. He beckons them closer and reaches out to pet the dog of his dreams, _finally_ , when — oh, Josh's mittens. They're still on. With his eyes still glued to the fluffy dog in front of him, Minghao pauses to peel the mittens off with meticulous trepidation, tucking them neatly into his parka's pockets. Nothing, not even the kindness of Joshua Hong, is standing between him and the fluff of that dog.

 

With eager, waiting hands, Minghao smooths over the fur of the base of the dog's neck, and Minghao actually _squeals_. The noise he lets out is inhumane, really, and it's filled with so much pure glee and appreciation that he giggles at himself immediately after — _fuck_ , this dog is so soft. Minghao pets the dog, slowly, doesn't even breathe as he rubs his fingers over the dog's fluff. He thinks hands were invented for the sole purposes of experiencing this — this feeling, a slow, genuine, puppy-induced happiness. He feels his heart swell in his chest, feels stars fill his eyes, feels himself fall into an alternate universe's bubble where it's just Minghao petting this dog for _ever,_ and _ever_ , and _ever —_

 

The asshole holding the dog clears their throat, and Minghao's bubble pops. The asshole — the _guy,_ Minghao adjusts, because Minghao's dragged his eyes up from the guy's dog to glare at him and his petting-interrupting antics now, except.

 

Except.

 

Minghao's eyebrows raise on their own, and he has to put effort into restraining his glare from turning into heart-eyes because holy _shit_ , that is the most handsome guy he's ever seen in his life.

 

Fuck.

 

Minghao silently admonishes himself for referring to the guy as 'Asshole' for the last couple of minutes, and his brain scrambles to find a more suitable nickname — 'Mr. Handsome', maybe, but it's a _vast_ understatement. Tall, dark, and handsome are all understatements, and Minghao is floored at how incredibly ideal everything about this man is. If hands were invented to pet dogs, then eyes were invented for the sole purpose of being able to see this guy's face — and with this, Minghao realizes with a start that his hands are still tangled in Mr. Handsome's dog's fur.

 

He blushes and pulls his hands away. "Sorry," Minghao blurts.

 

The man in front of him chuckles, revealing pearly white canines that Minghao's brain immediately latches onto and deems 'the cutest, ever'. Minghao recalls the saying: 'like dog, like owner', and his heart pounds — he's enamored with both dog _and_ owner near-instantly. The man smiles now, cute canines out full force. "It's fine, really. You can keep petting him if you'd like," he says. "His name is Bam!"

 

Bam. Bam? Fuck, that's so cute. A cute guy with a dog who lets Minghao pet his dog who _also_ names his dog cute things, like Bam. Minghao is smitten and he doesn't even know the guy's name. It's probably something equally as cute, he guesses.

 

"And my name is Mingyu!" Mingyu adds, as Minghao goes back to stroking Bam's fluff. Minghao's heart jumps. Did Mingyu read his mind? And he was _right_ , his name is cute. Mingyu is cute. MingyuandMinghao. _Ming_ haoand _Min_ gyu. Their names sound cute together, which obviously means that _they'd_ be cute together. It's simple addition — and the thought brings Minghao's calculus final back to the forefront of his mind, which in turn rehashes the stress built up inside of him. Fuck. Even the powerful Cute-guy-cute-dog combo cannot defeat the Stress of Finals Week, apparently.

 

And Mingyu is — laughing? Not that Minghao is complaining; it's _really_ cute, much like everything else about Mingyu. But still, what's he laughing at?

 

"It's cause you're cute," Mingyu begins, "and you keep saying cute things under your breath like I can't hear you, which is just even cuter."

 

Oh. Minghao blushes. So Mingyu isn't a mind-reader. He's still a cute guy with a cute dog, though, which is its own special kind of magic.

 

"You're still doing it, you know."

 

"Fuck. Sorry," Minghao apologizes, and reddens even deeper. How many times has he called Mingyu cute in the last thirty seconds? He knows how many times Mingyu has called him cute, at least — it's twice, and both usages of the word "cute" echo loudly in Minghao's brain. A cute guy thinks _he's_ cute. That must be Finals Week Miracle Number Two, which means that a good grade in calculus is now even farther out of his reach.

 

Minghao falls silent then, relenting to pet Bam further. Bam leans into Minghao's touch, and he smiles at the warmth.

 

"You never told me your name, by the way," Mingyu adds curiously, interrupting the moment. He's also still _smiling_ , which is incredibly distracting in itself. Minghao blinks up at him  — _up_ at Mingyu, because he's so tall. And attractive. And cute. And he has a _dog_.

 

"I'm Minghao," he answers, and denies how his heart flutters when he sees Mingyu's smile get even wider. Mingyu shifts Bam in his grasp, moving to support the dog with one arm, and his other hand reaches out towards Minghao for a handshake.

 

"It's nice to meet you, Minghao," Mingyu responds, and Minghao squints at his hand. Any second that's not spent petting Mingyu's fluffy dog is a second _wasted,_ really. But Minghao isn't a rude person — he can't be, not to the guy who owns the dog he's been obsessing over for a solid five minutes. With the slightest hint of reluctance, Minghao removes his hand from Bam's fur and slides it into Mingyu's grasp.

 

Aaaaand, there it is. Minghao should've expected it, really: the warmth of Mingyu's hand, the charm of the calluses dotting Mingyu's fingertips, how Mingyu's hand is large enough to fit nicely around Minghao's hand, even if it is ri _dic_ ulously large itself. Their hands slot together perfectly. Mingyu is perfect. At this point it's really just _unfair_ how perfect Mingyu is, and it makes Minghao huff, eyebrows furrowed, staring at their intertwined hands. This isn't what a handshake is supposed to be like, he thinks, but he can't bring himself to let go.

 

“Um,” a voice comes from behind Minghao, and he turns to find a brown-haired boy his age with a nervous smile decorated by crinkly eyes. (Minghao's hand drops from Mingyu's, and he misses the warmth of it instantly.) “I don’t mean to be rude and I hate interrupting whatever you guys have going on _here_ ,” the boy waves his hand around, gesturing at Minghao and Mingyu’s general area, “but do you mind moving up and ordering? The cashier’s been waiting.”

 

And sure enough, Hansol is watching Minghao with glinting eyes, leaning forward on the counter with his hands tucked neatly, _devilishly_ under his chin. He’s probably been watching Minghao flirt terribly for a while now. The asshole, the _audacity_.

 

Minghao glances up at Mingyu, and drags his eyes down to where Bam is shifting happily in his arms. Minghao definitely knows how to flirt _not_ terribly, so when he opens his mouth, what comes out next is: "Can I buy you some boba?" _Nice_. Nailed it.

 

Mingyu raises his eyebrows at the proposition, then furrows them just as immediately. "Are you saying that just because you get to pet Bam?"

 

Minghao coughs. "Maybe?" Is he really this transparent? Maybe Mingyu can read minds after all. "The offer still stands, though." Minghao then slides over to Hansol at the counter, and Mingyu follows, which _seems_ like a yes.

 

"Haaaaoooo," Hansol draws out, smiling smugly. "What can I get you today, my friend?" Minghao opens his mouth, ready to reply, when Hansol continues — "my friend who's fashionable, handsome, talented, smart, _and_ decisively single at the moment?"

 

Minghao purses his lips, exhaling through his nose slowly. Maybe he'll rethink Hansol's 'friend' status. Minghao sneaks a quick glance at Mingyu, who's smiling at him, amused by Hansol's blatant wingmanning, and — oh. He's been caught. Mingyu huffs out a laugh through his smirk, looking away, and Minghao only turns redder. "Can I get a hot almond jasmine milk tea with boba? And like, two servings of pudding." Hansol winks at Minghao as he punches one serving of pudding into the cash register, but marks the extra serving on Minghao's cup. Friendship status redeemed. "And whatever he'd like, too,” Minghao adds, gesturing to Mingyu.

 

"Can I get this red guava, passionfruit, and aloe jelly drink?," Mingyu says to Hansol, tapping the menu. Hansol raises his eyebrows in response, but the look of surprise immediately morphs into another smug grin.

 

Hansol swipes his tongue over his lips before he begins to review their order. "So, a hot almond jasmine milk tea with boba, heavy on the pudding, for Hao, and a," he pauses to make pointed eye contact with Minghao, "First Love for Minghao's friend?"

 

Oh. Minghao swallows. That’s subtle. He nods at Hansol then sneaks another glance at Mingyu, who has the tiniest, most satisfied smile dancing on his lips. Minghao quickly blinks away any urge to jump to conclusions — Mingyu probably just likes red guava and passionfruit and ordered the drink for that, _definitely_ not for any suggestive specialty boba titles.

 

“I’m gonna get us seats, yeah?” Mingyu suggests, and he gestures at a table in the corner of the shop with a tilt of his head — his hands are occupied carrying Bam and all his fluff. Minghao nods, and he watches Mingyu’s form retreat to a spot not even twenty feet away. It’s the distance between Bam and Minghao that’s causing this weird sense of longing within Minghao, right? Yeah, it’s definitely Bam.

 

“Oh my _god_ , Hao,” Hansol laughs, leaning over the counter once again. “You’re whipped as hell and it’s been, like, ten minutes. Who is he?” His palms press firmly against the counter’s mahogany, and his eyes sparkle with interest. Minghao pauses his rummage through his pockets in search of his wallet to take another deep sigh.

 

“Listen, okay,” Minghao begins, procuring his credit card and handing it over to Hansol, “he has a _dog_ , and it’s literally the cutest dog I’ve ever seen so you can’t really blame me for being smitten over, for one, a cute guy, and for _two_ , the cute guy’s dog. And—” Minghao huffs in frustration, “his name is Mingyu. How cute is _that_?”

 

Hansol completes the transaction in record time, and slides Minghao’s receipt and credit card back over before beginning to make his drinks. “So, Minghao and Mingyu, yeah?” He clicks his tongue, appreciative, as he spoons boba and pudding into a cup — the tapioca wizard in the flesh. “That is, actually, really cute.”

 

Minghao groans. “I _know_. It’s horrible. He’s adorable, and I’d date him after knowing him for a solid ten minutes, and eighty-percent of that is the fact that he owns a cute dog. But, more importantly—” Minghao whips around, gaze settling on the round-cheeked blushy boy from earlier. He’s still here at Tea-Do, sipping on what looks like the fumes of what was once a fruity tea with grass jelly, and it appears he’d been staring at the duo — or, just Hansol, to be more exact — because upon meeting Minghao’s gaze he startles, jumps up a little, and turns around, increasing the vigor with which he sips a decidedly _empty_ cup tenfold. “Who’s _that_ guy?”

 

Minghao seems to have struck a jackpot. When he turns around to face Hansol, all of Hansol’s smugness is replaced with bashfulness. “That’s Seungkwan,” Hansol mutters as he fumbles with a bowl of aloe jelly. “He’s on the _volleyball_ team here, Hao.” Minghao gasps at that — he recalls, briefly, a three-month stint that Hansol pulled earlier in the year in an attempt to get his manager to let him play _Haikyuu_!! on the boba shop’s televisions. To say that there’s a subdued volleyball kink hidden somewhere inside Hansol would be a bit of an understatement.

 

“Ohohoh,” Minghao snickers. “You and a volleyball boy, huh? You guys kept exchanging glances from what I saw. Not subtle at _all_.”

 

Hansol raises an eyebrow at him, and sets the carton of almond milk he was holding down for emphasis. “ _You’re_ saying that to me?” He points a finger at Minghao accusatorily. “You know you gaped at Mingyu’s face for a solid minute and then held his hand during that handshake for like, thirty seconds longer than normal, right?”

 

Minghao boops Hansol’s finger playfully with his own. “I _know_ I’m whipped, Hansol, but the thing is, I’m not the only one.” It’s Hansol’s turn to groan, then, so he does.

 

“Just—” Hansol places two drinks on the counter in front of Minghao, one a pretty red ombre and the other encased in a cardboard travel sleeve, “take these to your boyfriend in the corner and go kiss him and his cute ass dog, or something.”

 

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend and I wouldn’t kiss someone I met a mere ten minutes ago, but thanks for the boba,” Minghao says, wrapping his hands around the drinks. The warmth of his milk tea radiating into his hand through the cup — it’s the strength he’s been dreaming of this entire time. Letting out a satisfactory sigh, Minghao tucks two thick boba straws in between his fingers and definitely does _not_ think about kissing Mingyu in the corner of the damn boba shop.

 

“I’ll see you around, Hao?” The glint in Hansol’s eyes is back.

 

“Of course!” Minghao blows a kiss to Hansol in lieu of being able to wave goodbye, boba clasped firmy in his hands, and turns to leave the counter. The crinkly-eyed guy behind him in line practically runs up to order. That much boba thirst is _relatable_.

 

Minghao makes his way to a table in the corner, where Mingyu has his chin buried in Bam’s fur as he scrolls through his phone — he’s still as adorable as he was three minutes ago, which is also still just as unfair for the rapid beating of Minghao’s heart. Mingyu looks up as Minghao approaches, and smiles.

 

“Here’s your boba!” Minghao says cheerily, and places a straw and the red drink in front of Mingyu before unwrapping his own straw from its plastic. WIth it, he pierces his drink’s lid and immediately dives in — this is, after all, the moment he’s been waiting for the entire time, the reason he even left his apartment in the first place. The cute-guy-cute-dog combo is just an extra treat.

 

It lives up to Minghao’s expectations beautifully: the sweet, nutty notes of almond milk blending with the aroma of jasmine tea, the perfect _squish_ of tapioca, an exorbitant amount of pudding with every sip — the heat of it all, warming Minghao from the inside out. He feels, in the midst of a swirl of joy and contentedness, _human_ again, and everything from calculus to the bite of winter chill to the boy in front of him melts away until it’s just Minghao alone, sipping dutifully on his cup of milk tea.

 

“Oh, the color of your straw is pretty,” Mingyu interrupts his nirvana. Minghao glances down at his straw, a light dusty rose, and blinks. He can’t even bring himself to be angry at the interruprion; the warmth of the boba in his hand just radiates too much happiness. “Anyway, you and the cashier guy seemed close — he calls you a nickname, right?”

 

 _“_ Yeah, I’m here near-constantly, so me and Hansol ended up getting really close,” Minghao nods, sipping his boba intermittently. “A lot of my friends call me Hao.”

 

“Hao? Hm,” Mingyu muses, “Hao _cute_.” He flutters his eyelashes, and Minghao flushes the same pink as his straw. How lame. It appears that Mingyu doesn’t have as much self-restraint from lame puns as he does, much to the behest of his own heart.

 

Minghao slurps his boba instead of responding, and watches as Mingyu sips his own through a light blue straw. It occurs to Minghao suddenly that, despite his months and months of Tea-Do patronage, he hasn’t yet tried Mingyu’s drink of choice. The thought is almost blasphemous. He sets out to fix it immediately.

 

“Hey, can I try your boba?” Minghao points at the red guava, passionfruit, and aloe jelly concoction. The pieces of aloe jelly sit like treasures at the bottom of the cup, and they make anticipation dot the forefront of Minghao’s First Love experience — the _drink_ , he means, of course. He doesn’t even know what a red guava is, let alone what it tastes like, but he’s excited to unlock another expanse of Tea-Do’s repertoire nonetheless.

 

Mingyu pops his mouth off of the straw and holds his cup up to Minghao’s mouth wordlessly. The move is so _forward_ , what the hell — Minghao gapes in surprise, which Mingyu takes as a sign to move the straw inside of Minghao’s mouth. What the hell. The entire thing is just jarring and _weird_ , but Minghao closes his lips around the straw in spite of the several alarms ringing loudly in his head, and sucks in without complaint. Holy _shit_.

 

Mingao’s not exactly sure what love is supposed to taste like, but he thinks the drink _does_ come pretty close: it’s sweet and tangy, like a taste of summer in the midst of their chilly winter, and he almost welcomes the ice cubes that clink around the aloe jelly swimming in juice. He swallows it down, and the straw is removed from his lips.

 

Minghao didn’t even realize that his eyes had fallen shut in boba-filled pleasure until he opens them to a small smile decorating Mingyu’s face. “It’s like we just kissed indirectly,” Mingyu notes with a smirk, before placing his boba straw back between his lips. Minghao almost chokes on aloe jelly. _Oh_.

 

It’s _then_ that Bam decides that he’s tired of just shifting peacefully in Mingyu’s lap and makes himself known, barking up at something located above the two’s heads. Minghao follows the dog’s line of vision, and it’s —

 

“Mistletoe?” Mingyu says, blinking up at the greenery suspended between them. Minghao recalls Hansol’s words, an off-hand “ _go kiss him_ ”, and the phrase repeats itself chaotically on each of Minghao’s thoughts. Kiss him, _kiss_ him, kiss _him_. The glint in Hansol’s eyes makes sense now. Minghao curses under his breath. “Ah, you know what people usually do with mistletoe, right?” Minghao _does_ know what people do with mistletoe, and it’s replaced calculus as his Number One Source of Stress. He nods, though, because he’s a damn _fool_.

 

Mingyu drags his eyes down to meet Minghao’s gaze, darting quickly at Minghao’s lips, and Mingyu begins to lean in, slowly. Holy _shit_ , he’s really going to kiss him. Holy shit. Minghao recalls his _own_ words now, bass-boosted: “I  _wouldn’t kiss someone I met a mere ten minutes ago._ ”

 

And he’s right — Minghao _wouldn’t_ kiss someone he met merely ten minutes ago. But Mingyu is still leaning closer, _closer_ , and it occurs to Minghao that there is a cute boy that doubles as the owner of the cutest dog in the entire world that wants to kiss _him_ , and he’s denying himself the simple pleasure and privilege of kissing said-boy. Plus it’s been at least fifteen minutes since he met Mingyu, and the thought is enough to send Minghao surging foward.

 

In brief terms, they kiss briefly. It’s almost poetic.

 

But in the long-winded terms of Minghao’s brain, it goes like this: he latches on to the short contact and it stretches _on_ , an extended montage of how Minghao can taste subtle notes of red guava and passionfruit on Mingyu’s chapped lips, of how he can feel a smile against his own.

 

Poetry seems a lot better when it’s told lip to lip, Minghao thinks, but Bam barks again, bringing him back to reality, and he pulls away quickly. He can’t scandalize _Bam_ , let alone the other Tea-Do patrons.

 

“You taste like bubble tea,” Mingyu says innocently, licking his lips. The juxtaposition is just sinful. Minghao narrows his eyes, still reeling from the kiss.

 

“We’re in a boba café drinking boba,” Minghao deadpans. “You _also_ taste like bubble tea.”

 

Mingyu chuckles. “What I mean is,” he tilts his head playfully, “you taste good, Hao.”

 

Minghao blushes again. It’s really just _unfair_.

 

“All’s fair in love and war, Hao,” Mingyu says. He’s been caught again, oops. “Also, is it okay if I call you Hao?”

 

Minghao cocks an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be fine?”

 

Mingyu leans forward, persistent. “What if I want to call you something other than Hao? Would you be okay with it?”

 

“It depends on what you want to call me, I guess?”

 

“Ah, okay,” Mingyu grins devilishly. “Can I call you _mine_ , then?”

 

Minghao blinks, slow and heavy, before letting out a sigh. He takes in the sight: Mingyu, leaning forward, a sparkle in his eye, Bam curled up contentedly in Mingyu’s lap, and feels something unfurl in the pit of his stomach — warmth, affection, some almond jasmine milk tea.

 

Minghao arrives at his answer more easily than any integral he’s ever faced. “Sure, why not?” he responds. Mingyu’s grin gets even wider, and Minghao smiles back just as fondly.

 

A Finals Week Miracle, indeed.

  
  
+  _bonus_  


**Author's Note:**

> I HOPE YOU ENJOYED READING THESE DUMB BOYS AND THEIR BOBA!!!! and some bonus pretty boys at the end for good measure.
> 
> this entire thing was based off of a lil encounter i had with laina who i had the immense pleasure of meeting last november (minus the finals stress and romance and mistletoe kisses, of course). i do hope minghao passes his calc final, though his luck's been pretty good so far, so he should be fine, right??? :D 
> 
> thank you for reading woooO!!!!


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